The Sleeper of the Valley
by ConfoederatioHelvetica
Summary: Switzerland tries to recover from a large battle. THE battle. The conflict to end all conflicts.


**In French we were discussing classical French poetry. One of the poems we analyzed in class was "_Le __Dormeur __du __Val_" by Arthur Rimbaud, a very famous French poet. While reading, I noticed that this would make a wonderful Hetalia tale, and with, as with all my works, Switzerland in it. Who say school is boring? **

**The translation is free from my mind, so forgive me if you found a better one. Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière<strong>

_It's a pit of green where a river sings _

**Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons**

_Hanging wickedly in the rags of herbs_

**D'argent ou le soleil, de la montagne fière,**

_Where the sun of the proud mountain,_

**Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.**

_Shining: it's a small valley which foams of light._

The valley was lush, a river flowing down its center, carving a meandering path through the alpine rock, it contained pure water from up the valley, where springs erupted from the granite and gathered together to giant masses of water.

Steep slopes rose on either side to mountains with snow-covered peaks. The valley was covered in trees of all kinds, and large stretches of green grass, from which flowers and herbs bloomed. Insects hummed through the crass, and the woodlands were populated by deer, squirrels, bunnies, and a variety of other animals.

The day was still early, but the sun was almost behind the tall mountains already. The yellow light had a tinge of orange, as I hit the icecaps. It still bathed the whole valley in its radiance, and warmed the southern slopes, and the ground. The valley itself seemed to shine in its natural beauty.

**Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,**

_A young soldier, mouth open, head bare,_

**Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu**

_And his neck bathing in the fresh blue cress_

**Dort, il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue**

_Sleeps, he is stretched out in the herbs, naked_

**Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.**

_Pale in his bed of green where the light falls._

Switzerland was lying there, just lying there, unmoving, his mouth slightly open. The helmet, which used to be on his head, was by his side. It had become too stifling to wear.

How had he gotten there? There has been a battle, no, a massacre. Switzerland would have normally stayed out of it, but found he could not, not like before. He joined in, and he fought bravely for his own cause, choosing not to pick sides.

It did not matter anyway. In the end it would have made no difference. What the battle was about, no one could remember. No one would remember. It had been mere slaughter.

Switzerland was one of the few who had managed to escape death closely. One of the very few. He had crawled away, injured, went to the only place he knew he could recover. He went home.

He had found this place, and decided to rest. Taking off his bloody and tattered uniform to bathe in the river and ease the excruciating pain.

Where was his weapon? He may have lost it in the battle, or abandoned it on his way home, he did not know at the time.

Now he lay his neck in wild water-cress, and didn't care anymore. Sunlight touched his head and illuminated his pale brow, the small nose, the ragged blond hair, his parted lips and his closed eyelids.

**Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme**

_His feet in the gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling like_

**Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :**

_A sick child smiles, he slumbers:_

**Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.**

_Nature, cradle him warmly: for he is cold._

His feet were also bare, resting in a patch of wild flowers. He had abandoned his shoes and socks long ago, something he never did before, because they had hurt his feet, and the ground was so soft and welcome. He did end up with less blisters, but more thorns in his feet.

He was smiling slightly. He was thinking about having survived the war, the one that they said was going to be the last one. Again, like twice before.

He would now be alone, and no one would bother him any longer. And he was with Liechtenstein, his precious younger sister. No longer there was a need to protect her, for all threats had gone.

And so he slept, a little cold maybe, but the sun and the grass and the herbs cushioned him comfortably.

**Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine **

_The scents do not make his nostrils flare_

**Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine**

_He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest_

**Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.**

_Tranquil. He has two red holes on his right side._

The smell of the flowers and herbs was intense, but even so, Switzerland did not seem to notice in his slumber. He was one with nature.

The sun still shone upon his body, warming it. He had his hand down on his chest, feeling the grievous wounds.

Only, the wounds had proved too much for him, they had overpowered him. Switzerland had been the lat one to survive, he had seen visions of a great new world, and now he would not even see Liechtenstein again.

And so Switzerland rested, in his eternal sleep.


End file.
